


Learning to Breathe

by i_am_the_walruss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Dialogue, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_the_walruss/pseuds/i_am_the_walruss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We must no more ask whether the soul and body are one than ask whether the wax and the figure impressed on it are one.</p><p>- Aristotle</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts).



> This piece was inspired by [this](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/64166987010) artwork by [anotherwellkeptsecret](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, as thanks for posting her wonderful talent on the internet for all of us to see. She is too precious for words, and I am honored to be doing this.  
> Thank you, darling one, for sharing your passion with us all. And thank you for giving me inspiration.  
> Any and all comments/kudos/hits are very much appreciated. Thank you.

It was ten p.m on a Tuesday, and John wondered if he could spend an eternity in 221B as long as Sherlock was there beside him. No cases, no phone calls, no experiments, no Mycroft to terrorize, and no crap telly. Just two blokes in their flat, silence wrapped around them like a blanket because they didn't need any sound.   
  
John sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at Sherlock as he lie on his back, verdigris meeting John's own deep blue with a curiosity that would put a new-born baby to shame. His eyes pierced the deepest parts of John's being, scrambling for purchase on any place that he had not yet pursued. John was certain that Sherlock knew all here was to know about him, but that never stopped the detective from trying his damnedest to become the world's only John Watson Expert next to John Watson himself. The bloody rapture could be unfolding right outside their sitting room window, and all John could do was let Sherlock peruse through the library of his soul, looking at him with a raw tenderness that, for a moment, made John forget how to breathe.  
  
There were slender fingers curling around the back of John's head and he remembered how, breathing in the man in front of him like oxygen. John's own hands traveled up Sherlock's neck, landing at his chin and the side of his head, right hand clinging to the supple curls he found, leaning his forehead against Sherlocks. Their eyes remained locked and John sought out the pulse-point under Sherlock's jaw, humming when it beat against his fingertips. No matter what they were doing, where they were, John's hands always itched to find that hearbeat, feel it thrum against him, the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and warm and safe and  _there_ flooding into him with a force that surpassed life itself. And Sherlock  _was_ life. He made him full when he was too empty, brought life where there was decay. His voice was a beacon to a man lost at sea, guiding him home. John's moral compass didn't always point North and neither did Sherlock's, but they could always find their way back to each other as long as they took the time to stop and look. They were not perfect. They were flawed, they were human. They fought, they disagreed, they conflicted. Sometimes John wondered why he stayed, why he continued to buy milk, why he continued to stand beside this man and support him, come hell or high-water. 

Sherlock's lips finally met his and he knew why. Everything was difficult. But,  _God_ _,_ that is what John loved about being with him. Everything was quick, spontaneous, almost never planned, but always planned somehow. John hardly ever got a chance to catch his breath before he was sucked into a whirlwind of insanity, going after the allure of the chase whenever it called to them. If there was any small chance that Sherlock was right, he would thrust himself headlong into it, only stopping to turn back to make sure that John was still following close behind. Without fail, John was always there, heaven help him.   
  
John smiled and so did Sherlock, closing his eyes just because he could. When he opened them next, John would be there, ready to teach Sherlock to breathe again. 

 

 


End file.
